“SAY… AHHHHHHH!”
Zac blinked as a gob of necrotic spit and a loose, yellowed tooth launched from the doctor's mouth and landed squarely on his cheek.
“Ahhh,” Zac said flatly, wiping the debris away with the back of his hand. His tongue felt like a piece of dry leather that had been left in the sun for a week.
He was sitting on a cold, unforgiving leather inspection bed that smelled of antiseptic and fear. He was wearing a paper hospital gown that was somehow more humiliating than the leopard onesie, mostly because it tore every time he breathed and offered zero protection against the drafty room.
The keep’s medical bay was less a place of healing and more a place where injuries were bullied into submission. True to Marchosias’s aesthetic, there were no comforting pastels or motivational posters. The walls were lined with racks of surgical instruments that looked suspiciously like interrogation tools, bone saws arranged by size, forceps that looked like crab claws, and jars of leeches that were organized by hunger level. The lighting was harsh and clinical, provided by glowing white crystals that hummed with a headache-inducing frequency. It was a room designed for field repairs on soldiers who didn't have time to bleed, not for treating a boiled human.
The doctor looming over him was a testament to the dangers of DIY biology. He was seven feet tall, green-skinned, and held together by thick, black stitching that looked like it had been done by a blind tailor using fishing line. Two massive bolts protruded from his neck, sparking occasionally. Zac knew that Frankenstein was the name of the doctor and this was the monster, but apparently, his demon roommates hadn't actually read the book.
“THE TONGUE IS BOILED,” the monster-doctor shouted, his volume stuck at an eleven. “LIKE A LOBSTER.”
Bune stood behind Zac, hovering like a nervous, two-headed helicopter parent. The dragon butler was furiously scribbling notes on a clipboard, muttering a duet of dissatisfaction.
“I cannot leave him alone for five minutes,” the Left Head grumbled, adjusting its spectacles. “Not five minutes! I turn my back to fetch a dictionary, and suddenly he is being boiled alive in the caldarium.”
“They should know better!” the Right Head hissed, wringing its hands. “The volcanic hot springs are far too intense for a human’s delicate epidermis! The tepidarium would have been more than sufficient! Just a gentle steam! A light scrubbing!”
The Left Head paused, leaning in to inspect the back of Zac’s neck. “Though I must admit, Halphas did an excellent job with the exfoliation. You are glowing, Zachary. Literally. That red hue is quite vibrant.”
“WE MUST AMPUTATE,” the Zombie Doctor bellowed, producing a rusty pair of shears from a pocket in his bloodstained lab coat. “THE TONGUE IS COMPROMISED. WE CUT IT OUT.”
“No!” Zac squeaked, recoiling on the leather table and clutching his paper gown. “I need that! For... for French things!”
Bune’s heads stopped arguing and looked at Zac in confusion.
“French things?” the Right Head asked. “I thought you hated crepes? You called them thin, French disappointment.”
“I’m not talking about crepes!” Zac yelled, his voice raspy and painful. “I need my tongue! How else am I supposed to lie to people? Or talk dirty? Or swallow?”
He locked eyes with Bune, giving the dragon a meaningful look. “Imagine if you had your tongues cut off, you'd only be able to do liquid vore!”
Bune’s cheeks flushed violet.
“He makes a valid point,” the Left Head conceded. “The contract specifies he is a liar. Removing the tongue would breach the terms of service.”
“IT WILL ONLY TAKE A SECOND,” the doctor roared, revving up a gas-powered hacksaw he had pulled from absolutely nowhere. “HOLD STILL, LITTLE MAN.”
Zac scrambled backward, pressing himself against the cold metal cabinets. “Bune! Help! Malpractice suit! Call a lawyer!”
Bune sighed, a sound of profound weariness.
“Really,” the Left Head huffed. “Good help is so hard to find.”
The dragon butler opened his mouth and exhaled a short, controlled burst of violet fire. The flames washed over the zombie doctor. There was no scream, just a sudden whoosh as the reanimated flesh instantly turned to ash. The hacksaw clattered to the floor, spinning harmlessly, while a pile of dust and two metal neck-bolts settled onto the tiles.
“I thought he was a medical professional,” the Left Head sniffed, dusting ash from his lapel.
Bune waved all four of his hands, and the pile of ash was swept away by a sudden spectral wind. “Would you like a second opinion?” the Right Head asked helpfully. “I have many connections in the medical field.”
Bune raised his hands, and the stone floor around the examination table began to crack.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Dozens of gray, decaying hands burst from the ground, they were all holding up pieces of parchment.
“Look!” the Right Head pointed. “Board certified! This one has a doctorate in leech bloodletting! That one is a master of Trepanation!”
Zac looked at the forest of zombie hands waving diplomas at him. He didn't scream. He didn't cower.
He jumped off the table.
“Nope! Nope! No!” Zac shouted, stomping on the hands. He crushed fingers and crinkled diplomas with his bare feet. “I am not getting treated by the Addams Family reject pile!”
He stomped the last hand, which was holding a certificate for ‘Experimental Lobotomies,’ back into the earth.
“I’m fine!” Zac panted, standing in the middle of the room, his paper gown fluttering open in the back. “My tongue is healing! It barely hurts! I just need some aloe! I need lotion! My skin feels like it’s two sizes too small!”
Bune crossed all four of his arms over his chest, looking down at the mostly-naked human with a stern expression.
“We all know what you would do with lotion, Zachary,” the Left Head scolded.
“And it is not good for your eyesight,” the Right Head added solemnly. “You need your vision for spying. We cannot have you going blind from self-abuse.”
“THAT’S JUST A MYTH!” Zac yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “I’ve been doing it since I was twelve and I have 20/20 vision! It helps with stress! It’s self-care! Give me the moisturizer, Bune!”
The heavy iron doors of the medbay didn't just open; they exploded inward under an assault of fur and fury.
Zac looked over, expecting another zombie doctor or perhaps a concerned ghost nurse. Instead, he saw Marchosias and Skarg, both wedged tightly in the doorframe, trying to shoulder-check each other out of the way.
“I'll rip off those morons' eyelids!” Marchosias barked, his voice cracking with rage. “How are they literally more stupid than the animals they look like?!”
“I told you I should have been there!” Skarg bellowed, shoving his massive shoulder against the Captain’s. “I’m the only one who actually knows how humans function! Did you really think some birds or a fucking feline have any idea how weak and pathetic they are?!”
The stone doorframe groaned, cracked, and then gave up the ghost. Masonry crumbled, and the two raging behemoths stumbled into the room, showering the floor with dust.
Yes, yes, yes, Zac thought, his pain momentarily forgotten as he watched the two alphas storm toward him. They are totally in sync when I'm in trouble. It’s so hard to be so fucking loved.
Marchosias and Skarg continued their shoving match all the way across the room, neither willing to let the other reach Zac first.
“Tell me who I’m flaying!” Marchosias howled, his amber eyes wild.
“It was Andras, wasn't it?!” Skarg yelled, his breath frosting in the air. “And Nock! And Halphas! I'll make those three regret falling from grace!”
Zac smiled, his mind wandering far away from the sterile medical bay.
Cue the busines...
The scene shifted. Zac was being led to a fiery stake in the center of a massive wooden amphitheater. The citizens of the kingdom watched in silent weeping as he walked with his head held high.
"I loved you!" Marchosias called from the royal box. He was dressed in gleaming armor, a crown resting on his furry brow, looking every inch the tragic King Arthur.
"But you chose to betray me!"
"I still love you, Wolf Daddy!" Zac yelled up at the kingly wolf. "But when Sir Skarg saved me from the evil angel Malagant, I fell for him too! His lance is just... a lot!"
"You broke my heart!" March shouted, clutching his chest.
Zac put his hands on his hips. "I know I'm your first boy toy since you turned into the Demon King, but come on! Why can't we just have a threesome and high five?"
Suddenly, Skarg burst into the execution grounds, clad in dark, shining armor, his antlers surrounded by a magnificent helm. He was Lancelot, but bigger, hairier, and infinitely more chaotic.
"King Marchosias!" Skarg bellowed, drawing his sword. "The now-not-so-virgin is right! I still wish to serve you as your trusted Knight, but I also can't resist that human bussy!"
"You betrayed me!" March would yell.
"Oh shut up and come down here! Love triangles are completely natural!" Zac said defiantly. "Just because Skarg made me orgasm without my hands before you did doesn't mean I don't want you to knot me!"
March blushed furiously. "But... the purity mission... I mean kingdom!"
"Come now, brave King March," Skarg said, sheathing his sword. "I'll let you have the first round. As your strongest knight, I don't mind sloppy seconds."
Zac was yanked from his Arthurian daydream by Bune pulling him quickly off the exam table.
Just in time. Marchosias and Skarg collided, falling onto the leather table and wrestling for dominance.
“Why are you even here?!” Marchosias growled, pinning Skarg’s arm. “I told you you're on probation!”
“We're all on probation!” Skarg yelled back, trying to buck the Captain off. “You don't let us bring booze into your halfway-house keep!”
“THAT’S PROHIBITION, YOU IDIOT!” Marchosias howled.
He opened his mouth and unleashed a blast of silver fire. It missed Skarg by inches, instantly atomically deconstructing the top half of the exam table. Where the wendigo's head had been a second ago, there was now only floating dust.
Skarg roared and tackled Marchosias. They fell off the ruined table and hit the floor hard, rolling around in a ferocious tangle of fur, claws, and armor. It was very violent, very loud, and involved a concerning amount of property damage.
“STOP IT!” Bune shrieked, waving all four arms. “You're ruining the autoclave! That cost a fortune!”
Zac looked up at the dragon butler, completely unfazed by the brawl happening two feet away.
“Hey Bune,” Zac said casually. “You wanna go get some dinner? I'm hungry.”
Bune’s heads snapped down to look at him.
“But of course, Avatar!” the Left Head said, immediately brightening. “If you were hungry, you just needed to tell me!”
“I don't want you getting hurt,” the Right Head cooed, ushering Zac toward the door. “Come along now. We can leave the children to their play.”
Zac followed Bune out of the medical room, stepping over a stray bone saw. Behind them, Marchosias and Skarg were still fighting, the room flashing with bursts of silver fire and jagged ice, the sounds of their battle echoing down the corridor.
As Zac and Bune walked down the hallway, the sounds of atomic deconstruction fading behind them, Bune raised a hand and snapped his fingers. A spectral maid drifted out of the solid stone wall, curtsied low, and presented a neatly folded pile of leopard-print fleece.
Bune took it gently with one pair of hands and passed it to Zac with another. "Here you are, Avatar. We cannot have you running around in paper scraps."
Zac took the bundle, feeling a wash of complicated emotions. He was a bit upset with himself that he was actually happy to get his clown outfit back. It was ridiculous, it was infantilizing, and it had a tail that got caught in doors. But on the other hand, it was warm, it was soft, and if the reactions of the demons were anything to go by, it was apparently a 'sexy clown' outfit.
"Thanks, Bune," Zac said.
"What are you doing?" Bune sputtered, his Left Head looking scandalized as Zac immediately stopped walking. "Please, Avatar, this is the hallway!"
Zac ignored him. He gripped the collar of his tattered paper gown and ripped it away from his body like Hulk Hogan at Wrestlemania.
"Come on, Bune," Zac said, hopping around on one leg as he tried to jam his foot into the fleece leg-hole without falling over. "This can't be the first time someone has gotten changed in the hallway. Even if March is a vincel, there must have been plenty of times back in his frat wolf days that he was kicking one-night stands out of his room."
"Philadelphia is not a fraternity, per se," Bune said, looking a bit confused as he politely held up a hand to shield his Right Head's eyes while the Left Head watched to make sure Zac didn't fall. "And wolves are not nocturnal, contrary to common misconception. They are crepuscular."
Zac winced as he zipped up the front of the onesie. His skin, still tender from the aggressive scrubbing and the near-boiling, felt a bit sticky against the fleece lining. "March is totally not crepe-anything," Zac grumbled, pulling the hood up over his head. The sewn-on cat ears flopped over his eyes for a second before he brushed them back. "Crepes suck. Thin, French lies. March is hot as fuck. And it's always sunny in Philadelphia, so maybe he kicked out one-day stands."
"Crepuscular means that wolves are active during twilight," Bune corrected, his Left Head settling into lecture mode while the Right Head peeked through its fingers to see if Zac was decent. "It refers to the periods of dawn and dusk when-"
"Ugh, Twilight was so lame," Zac groaned, interrupting the biology lesson. He smoothed down his fleece flanks. "No one got knotted, and the werewolf fell in love with a fetus. How the fuck did I get gaslit into being Team Jacob for three years? It was a dark time."
"That sounds... wait, what?" Bune stopped walking, both heads tilting in genuine confusion as they tried to parse the concept of falling in love with a fetus.
Zac sighed, a long, dramatic exhalation. He leaned against the wall, looked deep into Bune’s eyes, and channeled his inner melodramatic teen.
"About three things I am absolutely positive," Zac recited, his voice trembling with emotion. "One, that Marchosias is a stacked wolf demon. Two, that there was a part of him, and I don't know how dominant that part might be, that thirsts for my body. And three, I am unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him."
There was a long silence in the hallway.
"Are you having a seizure?" Bune asked, genuinely concerned. "Should we go back to the medical bay?"
"No," Zac lamented, pushing off the wall. "I'm just hungry. For March... and for food."
Bune nodded slowly, looking relieved that the Avatar wasn't having another medical event. "Well, we have more of your waffle food."
The dragon butler walked up to a completely random door (one that looked like it should lead to a linen closet) and pushed it open. Instead of shelves of towels, the vast, candlelit expanse of the dining room was revealed.
"I'm getting a bit tired of waffles," Zac sighed as he walked into the hellish dining room and took his usual seat.
Bune looked delighted. "Of course you are! Or you must be!" The Right Head added eagerly, "We have a wonderful selection! Everything a growing Avatar needs. What does your little singular heart desire?"
Zac leaned back in his chair, staring up at the vaulted ceiling where he hoped another cool fight scene might happen later. "I don't really care. Just bring me whatever."
Bune clapped all four of his hands together. "There is a soul soufflé that is setting now! It will be ready in only minutes!"
"Pass," Zac said without looking over at the butler. "Too French."
Bune nodded understandingly. "But of course. What about a nice Bicorn flank? It is very high in protein and evil."
"Pass. I'm not Mongolian."
"Perhaps some of last week's jellied josser? It went over very well with-"
"Pass. Something about jello always made me nauseous. Too jiggly."
For the next five minutes, Bune attempted to offer nearly every dish the infernal kitchen could commission, from abyssal clam chowder ("Too damp") to roasted hell-boar ("Too piggy"). Each suggestion was met with a flat refusal.
"So you do care what you eat," Bune finally said, sounding a bit frazzled after hearing his entire culinary repertoire belittled by a man wearing footie pajamas.
"I don't," Zac turned his head to look at the dragon. "You just don't have anything good."
Bune sighed, a twin stream of exasperated smoke. "What is good then?"
"Oh, you know," Zac said, waving his hand vaguely in the air. "Good stuff. But if you don't know, it makes me think you're not a very good cook."
"I don't cook," the dragon replied, straightening his cravat. "The help I summon does that for us."
Zac settled for waffles. Again.
After dinner, Bune declared it was time for "remedial equestrianism," and before Zac knew it, they were back in the subterranean cathedral of the stables. The air was thick with the smell of musk and damp earth, a stark contrast to the sterile medical bay.
In the center of the aisle, Bune was busy tightening the girth strap on Leonardo, the Pygmy Aspidochelone. The massive snapping turtle looked less like a steed and more like a geologic formation with an attitude problem. He was currently occupied with munching on something that looked suspiciously like a bloody, severerd arm clad in a tatters of a paladin's gauntlet. Crunch, crunch, crunch, went the beak, grinding bone and steel alike with terrifying ease. Leonardo ignored his soon-to-be rider completely, his ancient, hateful eyes fixed on the middle distance as he chewed.
Zac looked at the saddle Bune had procured. It was a custom job, clearly modified from something meant for a much wider beast. But what killed Zac's mild enthusiasm wasn't the saddle itself... it was the straps.
"Is that..." Zac pointed a trembling finger. "Is that a five-point harness?"
"The Captain insisted," Bune said, clicking a heavy iron buckle into place. "It is a safety restraint. We cannot have you falling off."
"It's a seatbelt," Zac groaned. "I'm riding a rock with a seatbelt."
He sighed, resigning himself to his fate, and turned his attention to the beast. He leaned over, hands on his knees, his face dangerously close to the turtle's jagged beak.
"Who's a good mutant demon turtle?" Zac cooed, his voice pitching up into that sickeningly sweet tone usually reserved for kittens or particularly fluffy puppies. "You are! Yes, you are! You're a little snapper, aren't you?"
He reached out a hand to pat the turtle's rocky head.
SNAP.
The sound was like a gunshot. Leonardo’s neck extended with blinding speed, his beak clamping shut on the empty air where Zac’s fingers had been a millisecond before. The wind of the snap ruffled the fleece on Zac’s sleeve.
"AH!" Bune shrieked.
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The dragon butler yanked Zac backward by the hood of his onesie, hauling him out of the danger zone just as Leonardo hissed and snapped again. Bune didn't hesitate; he lifted Zac bodily and plunked him into the saddle, immediately beginning to click the buckles of the harness shut.
"You must be careful, Zachary!" Bune scolded, his hands flying as he secured the human. "The Aspidochelone's primary diet is sailors! They lure ships close by pretending to be islands and then drag the unsuspecting crew to a watery grave!"
Zac blinked, adjusting the straps that were now crossing his chest. "Do I look like a seaman?" he questioned innocently.
Bune paused, his two heads looking Zac up and down critically. "Well," the Right Head mused, "you certainly don't smell like one now that you've been bathed and your uniform has been cleaned. But sailors are usually quite... human. Crunchy on the outside, soft on the inside."
Zac shook his head, struggling against the restraints to lean forward once more. He thrust his hand right back into the dangerous snapping zone near the turtle's head to give it a scratch behind the jaw.
"Ignore him, Leonardo," Zac whispered to the beast, who was now eyeing his hand with renewed hunger. "Something tells me all of the demons here are dying to eat virgin human semen."
Leonardo stretched his neck backward, his jaws snapping shut inches from Zac’s wrist.
"Bad turtle!" Bune scolded, rapping the beast lightly on the shell with a knuckle. "No maiming the Avatar!"
"See?" Zac said with a grin, winking at the frustrated reptile. "No denial. He’s just jealous you might get the first taste."
After Bune spent another ten minutes lecturing Zac on proper posture, "Back straight! Engage your core! Stop wiggling," he handed Zac a riding crop. It was a wicked-looking thing, made of black leather wrapped around a flexible spine of bone.
"Oh, kinky," was all Zac had to say as he inspected the tool, giving it an experimental swish through the air.
"Not kinky," Bune corrected sharply. "It is how you will direct your mount on how to move and when to stop. This mount will not be able to feel your heels since its shell is so thick and indestructible. It responds to percussive cues."
Zac nodded in understanding, his eyes lighting up. "So if I moan he goes right and if I yelp he goes left?"
Bune frowned, both heads looking deeply unamused. "No."
Once everything was settled and Zac came to terms with the fact that he would need to give his new mount light smacks on his right and left legs to turn, and a smack on the top of the ancient turtle's noggin to start and stop, the rest of the riding lesson seemed to fly by.
But not literally.
Leonardo was quite slow. After half an hour of diligent crop-tapping and Zac shouting "Mush! Mush you geological formation!", they had completed exactly one circle around the stall. It was like riding a tectonic plate.
After riding lessons, Zac gave his new turtle buddy a few too many treats. He felt a bit gross about reaching into the bloody bucket (what even was that squishy grey thing? A pancreas? A spleen?) but the way the ancient, murderous turtle actually seemed to acknowledge his existence when bribed with snacks was worth the slime. He tossed one last glistening organ into Leonardo’s waiting maw.
"You're a very good boy," Zac cooed, wiping his hands on his leopard-print flanks.
Back in the hallways of the keep, as Bune led Zac to his small room for the night, Zac couldn't help but ask if Bune knew whose turn it was in the dream rotation.
"I am not sure," the dragon said, both heads looking slightly preoccupied. "All I can say is it is not me. After the incident in the baths, I need to make sure the caldarium is drained and scrubbed down."
Zac followed the tall, two-headed demon, frowning. "I was only in there for like, a few seconds before Nock rescued me. And I heard that there are no bacteria in Hell since they are technically alive or something. I wasn't that dirty."
"It is not because of you, little Zachary," Bune said as he began ascending a seemingly random staircase that definitely hadn't been there yesterday. "Nock's little hero stunt has dirtied the water. It is no longer clean."
The Right Head looked back at Zac, a look of profound fastidiousness on its face. "All of the fur dye has turned the water blond. Could you imagine the Captain being stained gold after his evening bath? It would be a disaster."
Zac nodded, his mind immediately conjuring images of a Californian Marchosias with big aviator sunglasses, looking sun-kissed and relaxed. "Beach bum March would totally be a surfer," Zac murmured dreamily. "Catching waves and breaking hearts."
Bune snorted, a twin puff of amused smoke. "You have such a wonderful imagination. As if anyone could envision the Captain wasting time with such trivialities."
Zac sped up to walk next to Bune as they made it to the second (or twenty-second… the layout of the keep made absolutely no sense) floor. "All work and no play makes Jack a dull daddy," he teased, nudging the dragon's arm.
"It has nothing to do with being dull," the Right Head said.
The Left Head nodded in agreement. "You do not seem to understand that idle hands are the Devil's, uhm, playthings."
"But you are all literal devils," Zac retorted.
"But we do not need to act as such," Bune said, his voice unusually somber. "After an eternity of fornicating and feasting..."
"...of manipulating minds and molesting mankind," the Right Head said.
"...of being seduced by our base instincts," the Left Head whispered.
The Right Head looked at the Left Head pityingly. "Having a clear head, and tangible goals and relationships, is quite appealing."
"Yeah fucking right," Zac yawned, unconvinced. "As if fucking and frolicking could ever get boring. Stop trying to gaslight me. First it was no waffles, then it was waffles, then it was you're fighting a gold addiction, and now you're getting high on my virgin aura."
"That's not-" Bune’s two heads tried to say.
"It's fine," Zac cut the butler off, waving a hand. "Just call it a tolerance break or whatever, but don't treat me like a child. Everyone loves to party."
"No, this isn't a-" Bune tried to interject again.
"I know you really want me to grind against your claspers as you semi-vore me, and I'm cool with it," Zac said, stepping into his room. "I get how life… or uh, death, gets in the way of things. Responsibilities, reality. I really do."
Bune stood outside of Zac's room, his frame vibrating. His scales were rippling, and his neck muscles were bulging ominously.
"You are mistaken, Avatar," the Left Head said, his voice tight. "The warband... we..."
"The Captain has been trying to help us," the Right Head whimpered. "When I was in the throes of my gold fever, I could not control my desires. I was dangerous."
"Well whatever," Zac said, shrugging. "Maybe it's good for you, but don't speak for the others. They definitely all want to get this human semen, and me being a virgin isn't helping them control themselves."
"That's the point!" Bune pleaded. "If you cannot control yourself, are you even an individual? Or-"
"Are you just your weakness?" the Right Head finished.
"Well my weakness is my blue balls!" Zac yelled. "I'm not a therapy device! I've got needs too!"
With a wet, tearing sound, Bune’s middle head erupted from his shoulder just as Zac slammed the door shut.
"I HUNGER! GIVE ME YOUR SEED!" the new head roared, spit flying and making a soft sizzling noise where it hit.
Through the crack before the latch clicked, Zac saw Bune's Left and Right heads’ eyes go wide with mortification.
Zac rolled his eyes, leaning back against the door. "That middle head is the only honest one," he muttered to the empty room. "If only the other two could be honest with what they wanted."
Zac slumped down against the door, his leopard-print tail pooling around him. Fucking demons. Fucking Hell. Fucking Truck-kun killing people and sending them to weird other worlds. This wasn't what the stories said eternal damnation was.
His mind conjured the classic images: rivers of boiling blood where the greedy were stewed like cheap beef; forests of razor-sharp knives where the violent were shredded; raining fire that burned the skin from the bones of the treacherous; barren, icy glaciers where the cold bit deeper than regret. They all seemed so awful, so visceral, so painful… And Zac was truly grateful that he did not have to experience that sort of physical torture. But…
Zac looked around his little room. The stone walls, the narrow bed, the single window looking out onto... nothing. What he got was just a continuation of the torture of his mortal life. A tiny room that cost him every hour of labor he could muster. A total lack of agency, where his days were dictated by other people's plans and neuroses. Seeing exactly what he wanted but being told he couldn't reach out and grab it. Being surrounded by hypocrites who denied that getting spit-roasted by a knight in shining armor and a nudist brute would be peak as fuck.
He sighed as he stood up and let out a deep, rattling breath. He had dealt with this pain for years. The constant, gnawing hunger for something more, something real. And as shitty as it was, he never gave up on the hope that one day it might change. That there would be someone out there who could understand his point of view. Always looking through a window at the things he couldn't have, pressing his nose against the glass until it hurt.
"It is easy for the demons to want to cut back on their gluttony," he whispered to the empty air, pacing aimlessly around the small room. "But here I've been starving for something and I've never even gotten to taste it."
He kicked at the stone floor. "They've all tried everything that they've wanted to. So being able to choose to not do it just means that they've realized they don't want it anymore. I feel bad that Bune was addicted to gold or whatever, but if he wants to be sober from precious metals then at least he is able to do what he wishes. He had his fill. He got to dive into the coin pit like Scrooge McDuck. And now he’s able to make the choice, to decide what he really wants."
Zac stopped, staring at his reflection in the dark red window. A scrawny human in a leopard onesie, looking tired and frustrated.
"How is that even nearly as bad as me wanting my V-card torn to shreds but not having anyone help me out with that?" he asked his reflection. "It's like... everyone’s gone skydiving so much that they’re numb to it and they are telling me that it is fine if I don't do it because it's boring. I want to make that decision for myself after I try it."
Something caught Zac's eye during his self-loathing virginity lament. Gleaming softly in the dim red light on the bureau was the bottle of Celestial Silk conditioner.
"Thought this got left in the shower," Zac muttered, reaching out and picking it up. "Bune had to have known this wasn't mine. Guess he expects me to return it to Nock myself."
He turned the bottle over. The rear label was written in elegant, flowing script: Restores luster and volume to even the most battle-weary manes. Stimulates regrowth in patchy and dead follicles. Effective on all coats, from the most stubborn hide to decaying zombie flesh. Medical Grade. Spiritual Grade. Miracle Grade. Keep out of the reach of non-mammals.
Zac sat on the edge of his demonically comfortable cot, rolling the bottle from hand to hand. For decaying zombies. He thought back to how Nock looked when he had been soaked in the hot tub, the matted fur falling out, the golden hue turning into a sickly grey and white. He had been too worked up at the time, too consumed by the ferocious aesthetic, to really think about what it meant. The hyper-vain lion was completely covering himself in concealer every day.
The memory of Nock trying to slink away on all fours, broken and ashamed, flashed through his mind. Zac frowned. Was Bune not bullshitting him? Was the warband not a found family, but one big therapy session with an overworked single wolf dad trying to keep everyone on the straight and narrow?
"Well, fuck that," he snarled to the empty room. "It's not my problem. All they want from me is to use me as some stealth plane to recon their enemies." He raised the bottle, his arm tensed to throw it against the wall. "Why the fuck should I care? Demons are the bad guys, right? I don't have to do what they say."
The image of Andras, snarling and protective, his cutlass at Gremory's throat after she had choked him.
The memory of Skarg, triumphant and proud, bringing him out for a lunch date, even if it ended in a massacre.
The sight of Halphas, a cocky grin on his face, conjuring him waffles and coffee just because he asked.
Nock's performing CPR after he had pulled Zac from the boiling pool.
And finally, Marchosias, his celestial angel wings burning holes into his own shoulders as he held a sobbing Bune in a desperate, comforting embrace.
Zac’s arm went limp. He sighed, a long, rattling breath that seemed to carry all the frustration and loneliness out with it. He placed the bottle gently on his bedside table.
"At least the nightly entertainment is better than scrolling through gifs on monsterfucker.com," he muttered.
He let out a final, frustrated huff and lay back on the bed. He was asleep the instant his head hit the pillow.
…
Zac blinked, squinting against an impossibly bright sun. It was a harsh, white-gold light, a stark contrast to the eternal crimson twilight of the Pit. He was on his back, the dry, gritty earth digging into him. Above him, a wall of sun-bleached stone rose to an impossible height, its parapets touching the brilliant blue sky. Banners, emblazoned with unfamiliar symbols, snapped in a hot, dusty wind.
He looked down at himself. He was clad in armor of gleaming bronze, intricately worked with scenes of roaring lions and snarling boars. A heavy round shield lay beside him, its face a swirling cosmos of silver and gold stars. The leather greaves on his legs were supple, and the plumed helmet that had rolled a few feet away was impossibly ornate. He was holding a heavy bronze sword, its hilt cool against his palm. He wondered why he had just fallen from the battlements.
"God has forsaken you," a deep, beautiful voice boomed. "Trying to scale the walls, and then this sneak attack? It is exactly what a heathen would do."
A war chariot, its wheels kicking up a plume of ochre dust, thundered to a halt nearby. A man dismounted, and Zac's breath hitched. He was a vision of sculpted, sun-bronzed muscle and dark, flowing hair, and his body was glistening. He was beautiful, a perfect specimen of classical masculinity, and he held a long spear with terrifying grace.
"Oh, uh, hey," Zac said, his voice cracking. "Oiled up and hairy. I like your style."
The man spat on the ground in disgust. "I've heard of you, Patroclus. Look at how the gods have cast you down from the walls so that I may finish you off."
"Wait, that's not my name," Zac squeaked as the man raised his spear, its bronze tip glinting in the sun, ready to deliver a death blow right into Zac's gut.
"HECTOR YOU BITCH! HANDS OFF MY MAN!"
A deep, raspy voice ripped through the air from above. An explosion of dirt and stone erupted next to Zac as a figure slammed into the ground with the force of a meteor, forcing the attacking Hector to stumble back.
"Wait, Achilles, you were supposed to be abstaining from the fight!" the spear-wielding man sputtered.
Zac’s heart fluttered. His savior was wearing nothing but a very revealing white towel wrapped low around his waist… a perizoma… and the simple fabric was straining heroically against a physique carved from divine marble. It was Halphas. As Achilles.
Halphas, although he didn't look that much different since he was already a muscle-bound stud, was looking, ironically enough, a bit blond. His dark feathers had taken on a sun-bleached, golden hue. The big spear and round shield the eagle demon was wielding were also a new sight, much different than the pistols and crossbow he normally used. I guess those muscles are big for a reason other than just making my blood pressure spike, Zac thought. I bet his shaft handling is top notch.
"Did you not see how he was smote by the gods?!" Hector yelled, raising his spear.
"And now the gods will have to watch as I kick your ass, you scrawny Trojan," Halphas replied.
Zac wanted to ask what was happening, but once he realized it was a dream, and once he heard the word "Trojan" and the bad guy call Halphas "Achilles," he put two and two together pretty quickly. Of course the nerdy vending machine eagle brought him to a historical battle. It was totally on brand for the Earl of Violence. What Zac didn't expect was a reimagining of one of history's most tragic gay love stories… and being cast as the twinkish lover of one of the most badass warriors in mythology.
Zac had not just been a fan of Twilight in his younger years; the Greek myths had also caught his attention. Zeus turning into a bull and fucking someone, Zeus turning into a swan and fucking someone, Zeus turning into an ant and fucking someone... the ant thing was a bit odd, but Zac wasn't judging. He just wished Zeus wasn't a weird therian and took the form of anthro animals. But the classics are the classics.
Zac had begun to realize that the Trojan War probably played out a bit differently from what he had read since, as he now knew, God from the Abrahamic canon was a bit more real than the gods of Greek myth.
The CLANG of metal on metal pulled Zac from his memories of famous historical fiction. He looked over at the brutal fight happening only yards away.
The spear fight between Halphas (Achilles) and Hector was a whirlwind of bronze and dust. Both of the extremely buff and well-fed men were really going at it, circling each other, dodging and weaving, their spears nearly audible with how fast they pistoned out towards each other.
However, it seemed like Halphas had the upper hand, both figuratively and literally. Where Hector held his own spear underhanded, basically tucked between his bicep and torso, Halphas had an overhanded grip on his own, using his height as an advantage to rain down blows directly onto the Trojan prince.
Halphas suddenly parried a thrust with his shield, the bronze ringing like a bell. Instead of following up with his spear, he threw what could only be called a punch with the massive shield itself. The heavy, reinforced rim connected squarely with Hector's chest.
Zac winced. He could hear bones cracking from ten feet away as he watched Hector crumple over, the air driven from his lungs in a pained gasp. Zac then winced again as Halphas delivered one final, brutal blow into the wheezing man, who had brought his own shield down to grasp at his shattered ribs. The eagle's spearhead punched clean through Hector's bronze armor with a sickening shunk.
"Die! Die!" the eagle shouted as he stabbed the now very dead man a few more times. "For my part, I will accept my fate whensoever God sees fit to send it!" he yelled as he yanked the spear back with a spray of blood, then added a "Hoorah!" in for good measure.
Zac gave a little clap. "Oh wow. I didn't think you'd actually quote the Iliad. For some reason, I thought it would be illegal for you guys to get into other mythologies."
Halphas turned around and grinned, wiping a streak of gore from his beak. "Ha! As if God could stop a demon from enjoying the magnificent creations of man." He walked forward and lifted Zac's chin with a taloned finger.
Zac's heart beat faster as he looked into the strong, but also somehow very well-read, eagle-man's eyes. "Oh, Achilles," he recited breathlessly, "may the same urn hold our bones." He paused, then added, "Because I want nothing more right now than your eagle bone."
Halphas's grin widened. "Oh, Patroclus," he rumbled, "I shall never bury my bone apart from yours."
Zac’s mind, swaddled like the infant son of the man who Halphas just turned into a pincushion, got thrown off the very walls of Troy. So fucking romantic, he thought. Maybe Nock is a scary-hot romancer. Maybe Skarg is a cuddly himbo. Even Andras is a dashing pirate asshole. But none of them were book-sexy like Halphas.
Zac suddenly felt himself being tossed into the air. He was caught easily in Halphas's massive, muscular arms. He was a bit disappointed that he didn't get that dropping feeling in his stomach from the fear of suddenly being manhandled, but that was okay. He was still lost in the eagle's eyes.
"So, are you going to carry me back to our tent so I can help remove your battle armor?" Zac wanted to say, but Halphas was already spreading his wings and carrying Zac up into the sky. I guess I didn't even need to ask, Zac thought for a moment, but then he frowned as he saw Halphas carrying him over the massive stone wall surrounding Troy instead of back towards the Greek camps.
"Just a sec," Halphas said as he readjusted Zac into one arm and seemed to swirl his other hand in front of himself.
The scene changed from day to night with the same effect as a VCR tape being fast-forwarded. The sun streaked across the sky, leaving a trail of orange and purple, before plunging below the horizon. The moon and stars blurred into place. The sensation made Zac a bit queasy, but it was over just as quickly as it began.
"We just getting some mood lighting?" Zac asked, his voice muffled against the eagle’s chest. "I like how you think."
"Mood lighting?" Halphas questioned, his wings beating a steady rhythm that carried them over the city. "The city didn't get sacked until the night."
Zac looked down as they flew over Troy. Below, the orderly streets had devolved into chaos. There were indeed lots of screaming and fires being lit, casting a flickering, hellish glow on the stone buildings.
Halphas began to point out the various soldiers and the different war crimes being committed as the Greeks slaughtered and raped the Trojans. "See that?" he'd squawk, pointing a talon. "That's Ajax the Lesser defiling Cassandra at the altar of Athena. Classic hubris. He gets a nasty surprise from God on the voyage home for that one."
He banked, giving Zac a better view of a group of Myrmidons setting a granary ablaze. "Standard scorched-earth tactics. Cutting off food supplies to demoralize any remaining resistance. Brutal, but effective."
Zac got bored of the realities of war pretty quickly. The screaming and burning was a bit of a mood-killer. Instead, he just enjoyed being held tight by the macho demon who was nerding out so hard over the historical battle unfolding below them. He rested his head on Halphas's shoulder, feeling the powerful beat of the eagle's heart against his cheek, and let the sounds of massacre fade into a distant, unimportant hum.
After a few loops around the burning city, an idea sparked in Zac’s mind. He needed to get Halphas alone. The eagle seemed like he could endlessly talk about the systematic murder of the Trojan bloodlines and the grueling logistics of transporting hundreds of enslaved people across the wine-dark sea to Greece.
Zac needed somewhere private, somewhere intimate, but also somewhere that would keep the huge history nerd excited enough to stay in the dream. And Zac knew exactly the place.
“Oh, Halphas,” Zac said sweetly, nuzzling into the curve of the eagle’s neck. “There’s still one place you haven’t shown me that I’d really like to see.”
“Lay it on me, Zachary,” Halphas rumbled, his voice vibrating pleasantly against Zac's ear. “Or should I say, my little Patroclus?”
Zac grinned. The eagle hadn’t forgotten the totally gay-positive roles they were playing. “Can you bring me down toward the main gate entrance?”
“Sure thing,” Halphas said. He banked sharply, the wind whistling through his golden-hued feathers as they dove back toward the Scaean Gate. “What do you want to see? How the soldiers are cutting down the stragglers who try to escape through the side posterns?”
“No,” Zac said, pointing toward a massive, looming silhouette that stood alone in the plaza, cast in the flickering orange light of the nearby infernos. “I want to see what it’s like inside of that.”
“Ohhh,” Halphas said, his golden eyes widening with genuine appreciation. “That’s not a bad idea. That old thing has been the genesis for so many human tricks. It’s the granddaddy of the tactical gambit.”
Halphas flared his wings, slowing their descent with practiced ease. He landed softly on the dusty earth, his powerful legs absorbing the impact, and gently set Zac down.
They both looked up, and Zac felt a genuine sense of scale.
The Trojan Horse was a leviathan of timber and deceit. Built from massive planks of silver fir and pine, it stood nearly thirty feet tall, its neck arched in a hollow, silent neigh. Up close, it didn't look like a masterwork of art; it looked like a desperate, hurried construction, rough-hewn and held together by massive iron bolts.
In the moonlight, the wood looked ancient and weathered, its hollow eyes staring blankly at the ruined city it had helped destroy.
“Impressive, isn't it?” Halphas asked, stepping up beside Zac. The eagle was still wearing nothing but that agonizingly small white towel, and in the heat of the Troy fires, a fine sheen of sweat made his bronzed, feathered muscles glisten.
Zac looked from the massive wooden shaft of the horse's leg to the equally impressive view right next to him.
“Very impressive,” Zac whispered, his eyes lingering on Halphas’s thighs. “So... how do we get into the cockpit?”
Halphas took Zac’s hands, his own talons surprisingly gentle, and gave a powerful, singular flap of his wings. They rose slowly, drifting upward through the rectangular trapdoor in the horse's underbelly.
The interior was a dark, oppressive cavern of silver fir. The air was thick and stagnant, smelling of resin, ancient dust, and the sharp, salty musk of forty phantom Greek soldiers. It was cramped and hot, the wooden walls vibrating with the distant, muffled screams of the city’s sack. To Zac, the atmosphere didn't feel like a war zone, it felt like a back-room… dirty, private, and ripe with the scent of "manly exertion."
Halphas moved through the gloom, his bronzed muscles catching the thin slivers of moonlight that leaked through the cracks in the planks. He ran a large hand over the internal scaffolding. "I think they even had someone crammed all the way up in the neck," the eagle murmured, his voice echoing in the wooden ribcage. "The sheer discipline required to stay silent for..."
He trailed off as he realized Zac wasn't looking at the architecture. Zac was staring at him with an intensity that could have set the silver fir on fire.
Zac stepped forward, his boots silent on the timber floor. He reached out, his small palms pressing against the hard, feathery expanse of Halphas’s pectorals. "It’s just so amazing, isn't it?" Zac whispered, his voice dropping into a sultry, low register. "How a big, sexy soldier like you can cram himself into such... tight little things."
Halphas’s golden eyes dilated until they were nearly black. A strange, sharp click came from his beak. "Well, uh... it's a matter of tactical necessity, Zachary."
"This big structure is basically like me, right?" Zac purred, his hands beginning a slow, deliberate descent down the eagle’s chest, tracing the line of his six-pack. "I’m going to be the one sent into the Holy City. A gift they won't refuse. No one will expect that I’m not a holy virgin, but a secret demonic weapon hidden inside a pretty package."
Halphas let out a nervous, high-pitched noise. "Yes... that's right... coo... you're our cheeky little decoy."
Zac’s fingers hooked into the top of the white perizoma. "Do you think any of those Greeks fornicated in here while they waited? It seems like a great way to get rid of... stress."
"It's... it's... coo... it's possible," the eagle stuttered, his knees looking a bit wobbly.
"I've been getting a bit nervous about the mission myself," Zac whispered, leaning in until his lips brushed the eagle’s neck, too lost in his own lust to notice the bird-man’s increasingly avian stutters. "Maybe you could help me get rid of a bit of my own stress."
Zac gripped the fabric of the Greek undies with a determined grin. "I... I... coo... it's not... the Captain said..." Halphas stammered, looking around the dark belly as if a commanding officer might leap out of the timber.
"Shh now," Zac breathed, his heart hammering against his ribs. "It’s just a dream, remember? I know you want me. You called shotgun, after all. Or were you just acting all tough in front of the other demons?"
"NO! Coooo! I'm not an actor!" the eagle squawked, his feathers ruffling violently.
"Then let’s see that eagle dick!" Zac yelled, and with a triumphant heave, he ripped away the loincloth.
Zac stepped back, squinting in the dim light. He had been waiting days for this. He expected a legendary display of demonic anatomy, something that would make a marble statue weep with envy. As the light shifted through the cracks in the horse's flank, illuminating the space where the towel had been, Zac leaned in, his eyes wide with anticipation.
"WAIT I… I NEED A MINUTE!" the eagle demon screamed, but the fabric was already fluttering to the floor. "Oh fuck... coo... don't look... coo coo cooo!"
Before Zac’s eyes could register a single inch of skin, Halphas’s shadowy figure began to bulge and ripple as if he were made of liquid. There was a sudden, violent sound of rushing wind and the deafening thrum of a thousand beating wings.
POOF.
A feathery explosion rocked the interior of the Trojan Horse.
Zac didn't even have time to gasp before he was hit by a tidal wave of grey and white down. He was knocked backward, his arms and legs suddenly immobilized as he was buried in a sea of soft, flapping bodies.
His ears were filled with a cacophony of hundreds of high-pitched, frantic voices.
"I told you he'd rip it!"
"It's your fault! You were too slow with the illusion!"
"Now he knows! He's going to tell the others!"
"Shut up and help me hide the bits!"
"Coo! Coo! Embarrassing! Coo!"
Zac blinked his eyes open, spitting a grey feather out of his mouth.
He was still in the belly of the horse, but "Achilles" was gone. Instead, Zac was pinned against the wooden hull by a literal wall of hundreds of small, bickering pigeons. And right in front of his face, pressed against him by the weight of the flock, was a single, man-sized, anthropomorphic pigeon man wearing nothing but a look of absolute, soul-crushing mortification.
The big pigeon blinked its round, orange eyes at Zac.
"...coo?" it whispered.
Zac’s eyes snapped open, his breath coming in sharp, ragged hitches. The sound of the pigeons, hundreds of them, bickering and cooing in a panicked, feathery heap, was still ringing in his ears, so loud he almost expected to find a stray grey feather stuck to his lip.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
A loud, insistent knocking was ripping through the silence of his small, single-occupancy bedroom, vibrating the very stone of the walls.
Zac didn’t move. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, and slowly brought both hands up to cover his face. His palms were clammy, and his mind was a chaotic static of Greek armor, wooden planks, and the image of a man-sized pigeon looking at him with the eyes of a disgraced accountant.
“Holy shit,” Zac whispered into his hands, his voice a strangled, traumatized rasp. “What the fuck was that?”
Favorite Demon (again)?!
